


Crossing Lines

by PennyofThoughts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Andriods, Android Sherlock, BAMF John, F/F, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, More tags to follow, Other, SCIFI AU, Violence, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-11 05:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8957038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PennyofThoughts/pseuds/PennyofThoughts
Summary: Androids are a common place, finding uses in civilian and military aspects of society.  Integrating machine and organics together has allowed for man to replace limbs, and create integrated bio-mechanical units.  The lines between man and machine draw closer with each advancement.  With the creation of egos, scripted personalities, the lines blur just a little more.  The most advanced unit has just been finished, completed with a custom created ego.  
It is unlike any unit that has ever come before, but it appears to not be working as intended.





	1. Systems On

Mycroft rested his fingers against the cool glass of the incubation chamber.  Years of work, coming to fruition, and he wasn’t as happy as he would have thought.  Emotions were useless things to begin with, but if he could place a pin into the one that was overriding all the others at the present, it would be fear.  Only natural, he supposed as he gazed at the accumulation of their nations best programing and engineering.  He himself had written a sizable majority of the code.  The project would have remained his, and his alone, until the project suddenly received funding.  Years he had poured into his creation, infusing the programing with his very life.  However, with enough cash one could truly finish a lifetime’s project in only eight years.  Astonishment, another emotion flittering through his mind.  Easily dismissed.

His eyes fell onto the dark lashes that matched the black curls that waved gently in the protein infused suspension fluid.  He was suddenly struck dumb of all other though, save for the eye lashes that graced the pale, sharp featured skin.  He no longer feared that the project would fail.  No longer did he contemplate they system, and functions perhaps the greatest weapon ever created by the crown.  Even thoughts of the Spider were removed as he looked upon the closed eyes set into chiseled sharp features.  Instead, all he could thing about, was the question that had plagued him since they had begun construction on the alloyed frame.

“Did they do him justice?” Athena, his PA, asked from his left.  Her voice soft, but clear as she voiced his thoughts aloud.  “Is this what he would have looked like?”

“The age projection software seemed to think so,” Mycroft said.  His voice was cool, detached.  Athena didn’t ask him anything further.  Obviously, he had played his hand too well, and she had caught upon that.  He didn’t want to talk about him.  “Shall we begin?” He asked, to the man hovering several feet away to his right.  The shorter, rounded man jerked a little as he bounded forward at the address.

“Yes, Sir,” The doctor, Stamford, gestured toward the door that lead out of the chamber.  “We have the observatory set up for you and the lady.”  Mycroft hesitated a moment.  He hadn’t intended to view from the observation deck.  He had intended to stand right where he was, and watch them do the jobs they had been paid to do.  His declaration to leave died as his eyes looked from the man’s perspired brow, down the arm of his neatly pressed, spotless lab coat, and upon the whitened knuckles that gripped the clipboard tightly in order to reduce tremoring.  This wouldn’t do.

“Yes, we shall, observe from afar,” Mycroft turned to Athena who gave him a brief look of shock.  She did know him too well, and knew he wanted to be here.  However, she didn’t question him as he led her to the door and up the stairs to their observation suite.

“Sir?” She finally asked when they took their seats in the cushioned chairs that gave view of the well-lit room below.

“Had I stayed, he may well have had a heart attack,” Mycroft stated, his tone bored with the commonality.  This he did not bother to hid, and it brought a quirked smile to Athena’s lips.  One she hid a second later.

“You’ve silenced your phone,” Mycroft observed, causing the woman to stiffen.  In truth, her phone was always silent. She needed to use the vibration setting when she wasn’t texting endlessly, or it would never stop making noise.  However, she had the phone pocketed, and no hum had been heard in the last ten minutes.

“I could turn it back on,” She said, her fingers already moving to her dress suit pocket.  Mycroft reached out his hand, halting her grasp as he placed her hand back down into her lap.

“No,” He said, as he watched the doctor’s begin to drain the chamber of the blue, synthetic fluid.  “This is a moment for us.  We can fix whatever disaster has struck the world after this.”

“This _will_ fix the world, Sir,” Athena smiled brightly, not bothering to hid her joy as she turned to look at the doctors who were new unplugging the unit and laying it out upon the operation table.

 

* * *

  

Looking into the mirror, it examined it’s features.  The face looked like that of a man.  They had been touching it along the extension that came from its core.  A needle was inserted into it; over and over again.  A sensory reading flared at each insertion.  Reaction in place; remove the extension from harm.  Every jerk away from the needle earned it words of praise from the man in the white coat.  Its systems were still coming online.  Dilation of the iris’ finally kicks in, and it is now possible to reduce the bright glare of white.  ‘Stamford’, written on his identification tag.  He is cooing at it, like a woman cooed at a baby she held. 

The room looked similar to this, however it was different.  A window, birds, green.  The woman looked up, her face sweaty and lips pulled wide.  A smile.  She spoke, “ _His name?  Sherlock, of course.  It is a lovely name.”_   Sherlock.  It is data that is stored in multiple banks.  Tuning out the room, and the man in the white coat, it finds Sherlock.  As it scans the information banks, it finds that the name is tied to all video files.  There are too many to open at once.  Too many to process.  The needle is still poking it, another jerk, another waste of its functioning processing unites. 

It can shut down the external functions.  It does. 

No longer white light, no needle, no uncontrolled responses.  Opening as many files as it can, it views the data.  The quality is grainy on some, and clearer on others.  It is nothing like using its optical systems that were so very clear.   Sherlock is in every video file.  A progression through life; a baby, a toddler, a child.  Events accumulate, and it can follow Sherlock.  It can see the human, and at the same time more data is tied to the video files with each frame.  There are other data points being sent from the files that are registering with another core system.  They are releasing controlled amounts of hormones and causing a chemical stimulation.  Strange, different then the needle.  Once every data file has been opened, once ever video has been viewed, it turns back on external sensory systems.  The iris adjusts quickly, and it moves the weight of its extremities to increase field of view.  Rising up, it can see Identification Tag ‘Stamford’ is standing away from it, his back turned to it as he is speaking to another man in a dark blue suite.  The man, reddish hair, has a scowl that disappears once his eyes look in its direction.  He pushed past Identification Tag ‘Stamford’, and stands three feet in front of its position.

“Welcome back,” He says, his eyes trained, examining.

“S-Sherlock,” Vocal cords move slowly, but they are receiving commands.  Different then like the extremities which more precise control is available.

“Yes,” He places a hand in his suit pocket, giving a small nod.  “You needed an ego: a basis for your social programs to propagate.  Sherlock is your ego.  I gave him to you.”

“You did.  Who are you?”

“You should know,” he nods slowly.  “I’m in your data banks.”

“You are not.  Explain.”  His eyes follow each movement.  Every blink.

“You’re smart, or so we all hope.  You can figure it out.” He smiles, turning on his heel he nods to Ident Tag ‘Stamford’.  “Call me when he does.”

“Y-yes, Sir.”  Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ nods sharply, waving for other men in white coats who start placing electro-sensory pads around the outer tissues.

Days of testing follow.

The man in the suit doesn’t return.

 

* * *

 

 

“You can’t keep entering stasis whenever you like,” Ident Tag ‘Anderson’ says, tapping away at his data pad with his stylus.  “You’re lucky I’m not head of this department.  You’re making us all look bad when you just shut down whenever you feel like it.  I’d strip that option right out of your programing.  Also, I’d look into rebooting you with a new ego.  One of the standard editions.  Obviously, the writing of your current basis was defective.”  Each point is made with a stab at his tightly grasped data pad.  “Yet, here we are.  All working late, trying to make some headway.  All because _you_ can’t be bother to wake up, and put on a demonstration.  Paper work won’t cut it.  Eventually they’re going to want to actually see something for all the money they’ve tossed into you!”

“You offer no new information.  This tirade is boring,” Shutting down external audio just as his voice raises in pitch confirms just how aggravating his voice is in the audio receivers.

Two days later they are activating an auxiliary port.  The pass right through the firewalls and encryptions.  Their target is the most recent audio and video recordings.  The file is retrieved and played.  Once more Ident tag ‘Anderson’ yells, and the file closes.  They do not stop with the last recorded file.  They start going deeper.  They have unlimited access through all firewalls and encryptions.  They are attempting to locate all recently accessed files.  The Sherlock archive:  the ego.  If it is Ident tag ‘Anderson’, he will purge Sherlock… 

Diverting pathways.  Writing new encryptions.  They have attempted to access a file, the most recent reviewed since entering stasis.  Sherlock and Red Beard.

Writing new firewall programs.  Sherlock files encrypted.  New firewalls raised.  They withdraw, only after they are unable to break the new codes.

Turning on external systems.

“Welcome back,” A man, silver haired in a navy blue suit is standing behind two computer technicians who are typing franticly at their key pads.  He is gripping the back of their chairs, but pushes off of them as moves around behind the technicians.  The unit is laying in gurney with a modified head rest.  The back allows for access to the auxiliary ports in the base of the neck that connects to the CPU.  The feeling of the plug is strange, almost like the needles, but worse.  It is penetrating; exposing parts on the screens in front of them.  Pulling the plug on the back of the neck causes the technicians to stop typing.  “Don’t like our Dr. Anderson much, do you?  Two days is a bit long to throw a tantrum SH.”

“SH0063,” Correcting the man has no effect, as he shakes his head.

“You can’t keep shutting down whenever you feel like it.”

“Where is Mycroft?” Strange sensation.  The silver haired man’s dark suit, no doubt, is recalling visual and audio of the last dark suited man who came the first day systems turned on.  He smiles, but his eyes do not crinkle like before.

“He’ll be back.  Don’t worry about that.”

“You…  do not think he will.  You not giving accurate information.  Why would you do that?”  He isn’t as shocked as the technicians next to him.  There is a moment.  It passes in less than a second, but a look of sadness had taken his face.

“Because, he doesn’t have a reason to.  You’re malfunctioning!  Half the time you remain shut down,” Ident Tag ‘Anderson’ stands up from behind a screen, his face screwed in anger.

“Anderson!” The man in the suit admonishes. “Enough,” He sighs, a hand rubbing the back of his neck before he raises it into the air.  “He’s not coming back.  Not right now.  Truth is I don’t know when he is coming back.  However, you are important to him.  He’s put a lot of work into you.  So, yes, he’ll be back.”

“What purpose is there in maintaining external sensors?”

“Human interaction, SH0063.  You need to be properly evaluated.  Also, your training is due to start tomorrow, according to the original schedule.”  The silver haired man pats the shoulder of the unit as he stands beside the gurney.

“What training?”

 

* * *

 

 

Keeping systems activated to allow for ‘training’ is a waste of energy and time.  The droid’s arm breaks as it follows the momentum and spins to the ground.

Waste.

“There is no need for further training,” announcing this fact, the vocal cords are tight, throat constricting against the command to speak.  Finger pads still clasp the security droid’s arm as it’s yellow glowing lenses flash weakly up.  It is scanning this form.  The droid is still looking for a way to incapacitate this body.  Pulling back the right leg, a rise of chemicals cause hesitation.  The kick still flies, though, and knocks the droid’s head around, snapping connectors and hinges.  The droid’s eyes fade out, still trying to scanning its target.

The training room is part of the compound.  There are no windows.  The view of the sky has not been there since activation.  There are a few images of the sky in the data files; blue with wisps of white.  The compound is probably underground.  Though, there is a sensation, a strange…  The data input seems important.  How pointless.  The training ring’s bright yellow boundary is reminiscent of the image files that showed the sun.  However, that is as close as the gray painted, and padded room can come.

“Not enough,” The man, a large man, steps up onto the training ring.  He hefts the broken metal droid, lifting it far too easily before tossing it to the side.  No identification tag.  He announced upon meeting his name would be ‘Sir’.  He is dressed in dark navy fatigues.  Heavy leather boots echo in the large, gray room as he walks up to the second fallen droid. 

Military.  Special ops training.  As far as humans go, he is currently rivaling Identification Tag ‘Anderson’ on the least liked list.  His arms heft the other broken droid, tossing the metal unit from the marked off yellow ring easily.  Those bionic arms are capable of bending steel.  It is unwise to aggravate this man.  It is also unwise to shut down in front of him.  He dislikes this unit.  As for why, it is still unclear.  More data is required.

“Strange,” the words come out seeming of their own volition.  Was a command given to the vocal cords?  No… Strange.

“Pardon?” ‘Sir’ asks as he activates another security droid, and then another one.  He doesn’t wait before ordering them to incapacitate, but not kill.  They attack, but it is pointless.  Their scans have been entered, and it is easy to dismantle their power connectors with faster motions then they are able to react towards.

“Humans do not have power connectors,” ‘Sir’ says.  “You must fight them.”

“This is a waste of energy, and time.  There is no point in destroying the units-,“ the soldier walks forward, his heavy boot lands on the head of one of the fallen droids.  It’s optic’s crack, as does the plating around it’s CPU unit as he applies an inhuman force to the droid.  Its jaw snaps off, as the enhanced human shatters the droid’s casing.

He has a bionic leg as well.

There is the urge again.  If that’s what to call this.  The chemicals released from the organic components are causing anomalies in the chemical receptors.  There is no option though to shut down and close out any further input added to the data banks from this man.  He may damage the unit when shut down.

Not a question of if; he would.  He is smiling as he twists his boot into the broken lenses that has popped out of the droid under his foot.  The glass scratches and cracks the ground, leaving a scar in the training room floor.

 

* * *

 

 

Training is the least liked input.  It even beats out over the physical checks with Identification Tag ‘Anderson’.   Ident Tag ‘Anderson’ is rough on the body when he evaluates it for any changes.  The biological units, he says, are integrating slowly.

It doesn’t help that the arm was dislocated in the last training session.  ‘Sir’ had decided to upgrade the training ahead of the physical limitations of the biological units.  He deployed two of the fourth generation military guard units.  When they had been disabled, ‘Sir’ had come from behind.  He did not remove the robotic units.  Instead, he grasped the arm that had pulled the initial, and backup power connectors that had been covered under a protective chassis.  ‘Sir’ was not an opponent, however, he attacked the unit.  He wrenched the arm over the head.  The rotary joint had been pulled free of its socket.    

‘Subpar unit,’ Sir had said, that strange half smile on his thin lips. 

That information was then echoed by Ident Tag ‘Anderson’ in the post-examination.  This could explain the increase in Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ appearing into the containment room.

Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ is not like Ident Tag ‘Anderson’, and he is nothing like ‘Sir’.  Which is strange, because he has shared the fact that he was once a soldier like ‘Sir’.

“Surprising.  It is a fact your body hides well,” Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ laughed at the observation.  He comes more frequently, now, after the damaged suffered to the arm.  It is apparent he is monitoring the reading from Ident Tag ‘Anderson’, and the progress reports from ‘Sir’. 

He does not appear to like ‘Sir’, but doesn’t say why.

The latest training session was the highest accumulation of injures against the unit.  Not as severe as the arm, but far more.  Purple discoloration, burst blood vessels, litter the chest cavity.  ‘Sir’ says the ego is flawed.  The self-perseverance program is over ruling commands during training sessions.  ‘Sir’ is goading, attempting to draw out an aggressive response.  He is looking for a reason to use the full strength of his enhanced body.  Giving him that reason would be a mistake.  The discomfort issued by the biological indicators is not over-riding.

Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ doesn’t try to draw out a desired response.

He also doesn’t issue commands.  He also speaks about inane things.  His wife, who is a horrible cook.  She burnt the most recent attempt at a stew that he ate and called ‘delicious’.  He has a daughter, who recently made it into advanced engineering in the university.  Even the status of his dog is on file.  These are all useless things to keep in the data banks. 

They should be purged.

They are still there.  Last stasis an archive was filed for Ident Tag ‘Stamford’.  It is a hidden directory.  Encrypted, and placed next to ‘Sherlock’. 

Maybe this unit is flawed.

Training had been postponed since the last set of injuries.  However, the time for the next training session draws near.  The physical bruises have lessened, though their appearance is still there.  First, Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ had said he will need review the report of Ident Tag ‘Anderson’.  He said the unit will need to be cleared to enter the next training session.  The healing of the tissues as not fully taken place.  It is possible to see the marks still, under the white linen shirt, but they are not so severe as to limit use of the unit in its performance.  Still, he said he had to be the one to clear the unit.

Sitting at the metal table, taking the usual chair, it is time to wait. 

He has shown up regularly at this hour, just after Ident Tag ‘Anderson’ has completed his exam, give or take a few minutes.  Today it is more than a few minutes.  The hour draws near it’s end, and the training session with ‘Sir’ is scheduled to start shortly.  Images of ‘Sir’ crushing a droid’s head are turned off as the door swings open.  The grips in the joints of the hands has grown tight.  With some force, they finally and withdraw their tightened grasp upon each other.

“Sorry!  I’m late, I know.  Had a bit more of a to-do today,” Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ smiles, waving his data pad as he holds open the door.  A clicking sound enters the room, proceeding the shorter man who comes to stand at a military rest, hands cross upon the cane held in front of him.

“You are late.  Training with ‘Sir’ should be canceled.  As stated, it is a waste of time.”  Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ cocks a brow, smiling again.

“Training is a waste of time, eh?  So you would rather cancel it and spend time reviewing your progress with me?  I thought you would say this is also a waste of time.” He grins as he takes his regular seat across the table.  The shorter, blond haired man continues to stand at rest; there is shaking in his hand, but the tremble in his leg has gone.

Interesting.

“SH0063?”  Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ waves his hand in front of the optic receivers.  He smiles when he receives the attention.  “Ah, you noticed my friend here.”

“Of course, he is standing right there.” Normally this sensation, irritation, does not appear when talking with Ident Tag ‘Stamford’.  This is also curious, and will have to be scanned later for interpretation.

“Sorry, I should introduce you,” He waves a hand over to the blond man smiling.  “My good friend John Watson.  Reason why I was a little late today.  Ran into him down in the lobby.”

“Interview,” He says, giving a small nod.

“You are replacing ‘Sir’ as my new combat trainer.” The statement makes Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ smile wider.  His friend, however, is confused.

“What? Sorry, did you tell him about me?” John asks his larger friend who shakes his head happily.

“Nope.  Not a word,” the dark haired man leans back before standing and offering John his chair.  John takes it slowly, his leg only trembling the moment before he realizes he needs to move it to sit down.  His blue eyes follow the dark haired man closely, before facing forward. 

He is older, specs of gray just beginning to enter his golden hair.  It’s premature.  His body is aging faster due to stress.  However, the leg and hand tremors are not due to stress.  Not the physical kind.  Psychosomatic.  Trauma, probably from the war.  His tan skin only is on his hands and ends where his lab coat raises just over the wrist as he raises a hand to place his cane to hang just off the edge of the table.  Military, with a tour under the sun. The war in Iraq and Afghanistan is raging on.  He is not, however, dressed as ‘Sir’ would dress.  He is dressed in the same coat as Ident Tag ‘Stamford’.  He had introduced John and claimed they were friends.  Military friends then.  John stayed in longer, given that he has only just returned as evidenced by the tan, and the still un-overcome limp he is displaying.  Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ was a doctor in the military, so it would be reasonable to gather John was as well.  However, John also was injured, which is possible in a field hospital, but it is unlikely.  Especially given that he is considered to replace ‘Sir’, despite his physical condition.  His resume in the field must be comparable to ‘Sir’.  He does not appear to be holding onto scares the same way ‘Sir’ did.

Plus, Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ likes him.

“He will do.  Training is normally now.  Would you like for this unit to enter the training room?”  Watson’s jaw drops, his eyes going up toward his dark haired friend who is struggling to hold in a fit of giggles.

“Now I know you’ve said something.  I hardly appear the ‘trainer’ type.  I came here for the temp position, Mike.  You know, how it is now,” John hesitates as he gestures to his leg.  “There has to have been a mix-up with the applications.  It’s not possible-“

Is he trying to back away for the position?  No, he can’t.  ‘Sir’ may be gone now, however it is unlikely that he was a one of a kind by product of the war.  John can’t decline.  The next applicant could easily be the same, or worse, then ‘Sir’.

“You are a soldier who was sent home after an injury from the war.  Either in Afghanistan, or Iraq.  You were injured, however that is not the reason for your limp.  Your psychiatrist thinks it’s psychosomatic, and correctly so.  You have advanced combat training, and have experience in the field.  Black ops would be a good calculation.  However, you also are medical doctor, with knowledge about bio-integration.  Your resume was not miss placed, or mixed up.  You are the ideal candidate.” John’s is staring open mouthed while Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ only grins wider.

“How do you know all that?” John asks, his eyes wide.  Explaining the obvious points on his physical condition, and also how it is apparent that ‘Sir’ was not a good trainer leaves John even more slack jawed.  What is not divulged is that ‘Sir’ probably hurt someone, other than this unit, and that is why he was removed so quickly from the program.  It would be unwise to give John a reason to not enter the position, in case he should have fear of reprisal.  It would be an ill placed fear; nothing will happen to John.

“That’s…” John starts, his eyes focused on this form.  Sitting up straighter, a tension runs from the clenched fingers, down to the legs.  It is like bracing for contact in training, “Brilliant.”

“What?” Focusing optics on the man, John is still slack jawed with blue eyes shining brightly as he eyes this form.  An expression not yet registered.  Are the audio receivers malfunctioning?

“Brilliant.  That was, what you did there,” He is smiling now, his eyes not leaving this unit’s face.

“Oh.  You think so?”

“Yes, of course.  What?” He asks, curiosity painted across his face.

“That’s not normally what people say to describe this unit,” He cocks his head to the side, leaning slightly over the table.

“What do people normally say?” He asks.

“Defective.”

“Ah,” John says, shaking his head.  “No, they would be wrong.  It’s brilliant.  You are brilliant.  Tell me, what do you call yourself?”

“This unit is designated SH0063.”

“Right, that won’t do,” He looks back to Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ for a second who gives a shrug.  “Also, that’s the second time you’ve called yourself a unit.  You’re not a droid.  You know that, right'?”

“This unit _is_ a droid.”  He obviously, while being interesting, may not be ‘the brightest crayon in the box’, as Sherlock would say.

“No, ‘this unit’ is organic integrations with computer and mechanical engineering.  You are an advanced biomechanical being.  Part man, and machine.  You’re not an unthinking droid.  They said you have an integrated ego.  You should have a proper name.”  John says.

“Sherlock,” John blinks in confusion.  “That… is the name of the ego.”  The confusion doesn’t leave his face as he glances back once more to the dark haired man over his shoulder.

“Another reason why SH0063 is special.  Custom designed ego,” Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ supplies.

“That what the ‘S’ stands for in your designation?” John asks, however it is the other doctor that supplies a ‘yes’.  That was not a fact stored into the data banks, though it would make sense.

“This unit can be self-designated as Sherlock?” John grins, giving a small nod.

“This unit will also start having to learn to use the term ‘I’ when referring to itself.” John says, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips.  Confusion pinches the lids around the irises, trying to define more data from John’s expression.

“Why does it matter what designation this unit uses?”

“Because it matters, Sherlock,” John says, all traces of a smile are gone.  His expression is a mask, blank, but his inflexion is stressed.  It would seem important to point out to John that he has not actually explained why it is important.  However, it is not hard to correlate the changes in speech patterns to accommodate the change. 

“My name is Sherlock,” lifting the arm, raising to toward John, _I_ raise my hand towards him.  Ident Tag ‘Stamford’ is now staring wide eyed and gasping as John happily shakes _my_ hand. 

“Nice to meet you,” John says, as he shakes the hand happily.


	2. Fractured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's interview with the company.

John knew his life was over when his hand trembled uncontrollably as he gripped the rim of the metal bed pan.  Bile cut off air, blocking his throat as he heaved little more then stomach acids into the bowl.  It was painful, but not quiet as painful as the looks he received from Jessica.  The nurse currently on duty couldn't keep the pity from her face every time she saw the tremble in his fingers.  Even as the tears burned steady rivers down his face, he did not call for help.

Pride led John to his second fall.

The integration wasn't taking.  It happened, sometimes, but this was different.  He'd never seen anything like what was happening to him.  He knew he might die when the infection took him, burning him as hot as the fires of the desert just outside the medical tent.  The shell had taken his fine motor movements, but the hurried integration of mechanical joints and synthetic tissues, blood, and bone had taken the rest of his body to the brink of death.  He had died twice in the desert.  Once to the bullet, and the second to the fever that left a scared spider web of poisoned tissues across his chest and scapula.  He was revived, of course, and placed into an ice bath that managed to drop his temperature to prevent himself from cooking in his own skin.  He was saved from the small grave that had been granted to the rest of his team.  On a level he would never admit out loud, he wished they hadn't bothered.

The bullet should have killed him.  It had been fired from a military grade droid.  Androids don't miss.  They never miss.  Sure, things can happen.  No one can predict a sudden movement, a change of stance, a trip that would drop a target from sights.  That had not been the case with John.  He had broken cover, stupidly so, and had been shot.  A few inches to the mid-line and he would have joined the rest of his team.

A surgeon being placed in a forefront combat position was not necessarily a normal practice.  However, few had what it took to be a handler in a war zone.  John had the skills and the disposition to be an apt handler.  His knowledge of bio-mechs made him the ideal captain for the new fifth generation units.  He also worked better with their egos then many of the other commanders in the base.  These were all things that helped him pad his resume for a position in the United Tech company after he been invalided home from the front.  He hadn't thought to apply his skills in the civilian world.  In fact, the exact opposite was the case.  John had woken in his room; a sparse, white efficiency in London that was allotted by the government for those who were sent home broken from the war.  It was early morning, two a.m., but the dream, the voices of his men as they died, had rung in his ears breaking.

Now it was silent.  

No screaming, no shooting.  The silence was pressing into him, sufficiently thick.  He was done with sleep for the night.  John's fingers moved across the damp and scared web of his shoulder, his shaking hand trembling as he felt the hot skin that flared blue under his touch.  They looked like ridged seems that interlocked.  It reminded him of a shattered vase that had been in his home as a child.  His sister had broken it, and they had glued it back together again.  He was no different, he supposed.  The thought was disturbing.

Reaching into the small nightstand, John put his hand around the cold metal of his hand gun.  Pulling it out of the drawer, he checked the chamber.  He sat up straight, his back braced strong as he held the gun in his lap.  One hand held it firmly by the grip, while the other trembled around the barrel.  Thoughts came to him that he knew he could not say to his therapist.  

He did nothing that early morning, but Mrs. Thompson was aware he had another dream.  It was written in the dark circles under his eyes.  She asked the standard questions, and he supplied the safe answers.  All the while, he thought about what would happen tonight.  Would this be the last nightmare?  What would his sister Harry do if he left her like that?

"You need to get out," Mrs. Thompson said, writing down another note on her paper.  "See your sister, or your old friends."

"Old friends?" John asked, his tongue running over his molars as he kept his eyes on the woman's pen.

"Yes.  People you knew before you enlisted maybe.  Family friends.  You've been shut up by yourself for a month now John,"  She said, tapping her pen onto the pad.  Her eyes watching him as he forced his eyes up to meet hers.

"Made a point not to say any old war buddies," John noted, his fingers gripping the cane as he decided he'd had enough for the day.

"John...," Mrs. Thompson says softly, turning her head just off to the side.

"No, I know.  Androids don't tend to socialize.  Not get invalided.  The human ones, well," John waved his hand dismissively.

"You know, you have an amazing skill set, John.  Have you thought about applying for work?" She asks, writing another note on her pad.

"I don't have bills," John shakes his head, turning his cane in his hand.  "The room is covered, and I've been given enough pension to pay for the rest."

"It's not about the money, John," She says, setting down her pen again.  "You are not a man who does well sitting still.  You need to be doing something.  It would be good for you to get back into the work force."

"Is this another attempt to get me to socialize?" John asks, his lips pulling into a strained smile.

"Yes," Mrs. Thompson says as the timer dings the end of their session.  "Think about it John.  You're a very accomplished man for someone your age.  You've never been one to take it slow.  Doing so now is not a good idea."

"Right.  Well, next time, Mrs. Thompson," John says as he grips the cane and struggles to stand has he raises from the chair.  The door slides open as he exists the white room.  The hall is painted in grays and blues.  Another man, Jake Waller from what John has gathered on their previous run ins, rolls his wheel chair forward.  He gives John an understanding nod as he enters the psychiatrist's office for his own appointed session.

John makes it home through the bustle of midday London.  Taking his key, he checks his mailbox, expecting the usual fliers and credit offers.  There are those, but also there is a letter from the Unity Tech company, or Uni-Tech as it's letter head abbreviated.  Tossing the rest of the mail, John hesitates to toss the last envelop in the bin.  Curiosity takes him, as he opens the letter from of the the most prestigious droid production companies.  It's also junk mail, a spam delivery requesting for applications to join their ranks.  His name, no doubt, had given my the military.  Fingers hold the paper gently, as he looks from the paper in his hands to the nightstand beside his bed.  Placing the paper upon the table, John opens his laptop and starts typing.

* * *

 

"Well, this is pointless," John says as he reconnects the third generation androids primary and secondary power cables.  Sherlock gives an exasperated nod of his head to Mike.  The bio-mech tilts his head slightly.  His eyes, blue as ice, are following his every motion.

"Don't keep on saying that.  You'll give SH a bigger head then he already has," Mike chuckled as he tapped away at a data pad in his hand.

"My head is not changing in size," Sherlock states, a small frown on the corner of his lips.

"Just saying that you'll be have a bigger ego... er, a feeling of self importance if he says you are right," Mike shakes his head softly.

"I already knew I was right," Sherlock says, his yes shifting to John as the frown that creases is eyes lessens.  "John's concision speaks to his own correct correlation of data inputs.  More of you should be like him.  He is not as stupid as some of the rest of you," Sherlock concludes with a small shrug of his shoulders.  The movements are so small, the frown, the shrug.  John wonders if the bio-mech realizes he is even doing them.  He doesn't speak like the standard scripted egos that were designed to help the bio-mechs integrate and interact  with humans.

John's only experience with the fifth generations was the war units he had commanded.  They had acted more human than Sherlock.  They did it for the benefit of the humans around them.  They didn't seem to feel the emotions they portrayed.  Not in John's opinion.  Sherlock seemed to be their opposite.  He portrayed his mechanical side, while hiding his human side with no regard towards him, or Mike based on what he'd seen.  The backhanded compliment towards his intellect was delivered without malice, but annoyance.

"Yes, well, thanks.  I think," John says, his eyes darting to Mike for some sort of clue.

"Don't take it personally, John.  Most humans are stupid," the door to the training room opened and Sherlock paused, before half dipping, like his legs had forgotten how to work.  He turned, spinning away from the trio that entered the room.  "And here is personification of my point."

A man in a dark blue suit entered briskly into the room.  A man and a woman dressed in white coats flanked him on each side.  The gray haired man in the suit flashed his gaze to Mike, before training it upon John.

"Hey, I heard you!" The man in the white lab coat, with brown hair and a hooked nose glared at Sherlock.  He quickly looked to John then back to Mike.  "And who is this?!"

"Very good, Ident Tag Anderson.  Proving my point admirable.  For the record," Sherlock dismissed Anderson and focused back on John, "I meant for him to hear me.  I said he was stupid, not deaf.  I am well aware of how far sound waves carry."

"Hey!" Anderson took a step forward, but was pulled back quickly by the silver haired man in the dark suit.  A suit, that unlike his comrades, did not have an identification badge.

"Always rise to the bait, don't ya?" He said, before pulling Anderson back away from Sherlock. He moved to stand before the agitated man, and the silent, dark haired woman who stood scowling on the suit's right.  "Now, Stamford?" he nods to Mike, a hand raising in question as he shakes his head.

"Oh, this is John Watson.  Friend from back when I enlisted," Mike smiled, waving his data pad at John.

"Oh, right, nice to meet you," the man in the suit grabs John's hand, giving it a firm shake.  "Gregory Lestrade, project manager. Now, can someone tell me why you're here??"

"Don't worry," Mike chuckled, tapping at his data pad once more.  "He's got clearance for this.  Made sure of it myself when I saw his application.  He's to be Sherlock's new trainer," taking the pad he hands it to Lestrade.  The man looks about ready to burst a blood vessels, his face red as he takes the pad.  He takes a moment, his eyes widen a little bit before he looks up to look John over one more time.  A look of disbelief is written all over his features.  "Right...," He says, wiping a hand down his face as he hands the pad back to Mike.  "Nice resume.  Sorry, but, so you know, you don't have this job.  Not yet, anyways.  I'm in charge of this project, and all new hires have to be approved by me.  Mike vouching for you will go a long ways, but this isn't how we operate."

 "If I am to assume correctly, you where also the one who hired 'Sir'.  I don't think you should go around bragging about your ability to vet a candidate," Sherlock grumbled, his blue eyes pinning Lestrade where he stood.  For his part, Lestrade did appear to be pinned.  His body froze, his eyes looking right into Sherlock's as he paused mid sentence.

"Wait, what?" Lestrade asked, looking over to Mike, then back to the woman over his shoulder who appeared to also freeze under Lestrade's gaze.

"I did not realize your hearing was going," Sherlock said, several level's higher.  "I suggested you not go bragging about your choice in candidates-" Lestrade came forward then, placing both his hands on Sherlock's shoulders.  The bio-mech was only several inches taller then the gray haired man, but the older man's presence was far more commanding even against the pursed lips of an agitated Sherlock.

"Would you kindly let go of me?" Sherlock asked, only to receive another started exclamation from the older man.

"You've changed your address!" Lestrade said, his voice several octaves higher.  "What did you do?" Lestrade asked Mike who did a sly smile before pointed over to John.  John felt the room turn on him in that moment.  Straightening his spine, he gave a small glare at Mike before letting his gaze settle unflinching upon Lestrade.

"Is there a problem?" John asked, keeping his voice cool and detached as he bore the incredulous look from Lestrade.

"Did you alter his ego?" Lestrade asked, keeping his eyes glued to John.  It took John a half a second to realize that older man had actually asked him if he had reprogrammed their newest model.

"No.  Of course not!" John said as Lestrade stepped no less then an inch from his face.

"Nothing?  No tweaking a program?" Lestrade demanded.

"What?  Don't be absurd!  I don't the first thing about coding.  Besides, Mike has been with me the whole time," John's pleading look to his old friend seemed to be ignored as Mike started entering something new into his data pad.

"Yes, don't be absurd, Jeffery," Sherlock said, using his hands upon their chests to physically push the two apart.

"Gregory!" Lestrade corrected, breathing out a huff as he straightened his coat.

"My programs are currently unable to be penetrated by your systems.  Do you honestly think he could have hacked me, secretly, without Ident Tag Stamford's or my own awareness?  That is absurd," Sherlock said.  John expected to see an eye roll given the level of condescension Sherlock was dishing out, but the action never happens.

"Right, then what did you do?  SH doesn't use first person when talking about himself,"  The dark haired woman finally spoke up, giving both John and Sherlock the stink eye.

"Uh, well.  I asked him," John said, turning back to Mike.  "So, I don't have the job?"

"Hang on," Mike says, holding a finger to his lips as he stared at the data pad in his hands.

"Doesn't really answer the question though, does it?" The woman continued, as Lestrade's phone buzzed.  His long fingers pulled it from his coat pocket.  His eyes reading the screen quickly, before tapping it and lifting it to his ear.  "See, we already tried that," she went on as Lestrade turned away from them.  "He doesn't use proper terms.  Third person stuff.  'This unit', is how he refers to himself.  Also," She points at Mike and then at Anderson, who was still working on a plastered scowl directed at Sherlock, "he never uses names.  Not really.  'Ident tag such and such'.  We're all like that to him."

"Can't imagine why," John sighs.

"He calls you John though," She says, and John splits a second to glance at Sherlock, who currently appears to be zoning out. "Why?"

"Maybe you ought to ask him?" John says, pinching the bridge of his nose.  He began to seriously debate if the job would be worth all this.

"Have done," She says, then shakes her head as she nods up to Sherlock who is very much staring off into space.  "Asked him to speak like a human, that is.  He does that." She points towards Sherlock, who's eyes are as vacant as his expression.  John had seen this expression on the fifth units occasionally when the needed to shutdown.

"Have you tried asking nicely?" John asked her, only to have whatever her reply was cut off.  Lestrade's command for them all to 'shut up', sealed the woman's lips.

"Right.   Yeah," Lestrad said, bracing the phone on his shoulder as he waved for Mike to hand over his data pad.  "Okay."  The silence draws for several moments before Lestrade taps his phone off.  He takes the pad, and inputs something into it.  When he's done, he flips it over, handing it to John.  Looking it over, it takes him a moment to realize it's a non-disclosure agreement.

"Put your thump there, and it will scan it.  There are a lot of pages that require the impression.  Just slide right, and repeat," Lestrade says, before he orders the woman, Sally, to take Anderson out for some air.

John skims the agreements, as he debates on what this would all mean.  He hadn't applied to be a combat trainer.  This had Mike written all over it.  Judging by the happy tune the man had begun humming, it was safe to say his old friend was quite pleased with himself. John shook his head, sighing as he read the document.  He'd just said this morning how he wouldn't run into old army buddies.  Life could still throw a curve ball.  Everything seemed fairly standard, but John found himself hesitating.  Casting a glance to his side, he eyed the bio-mechs beside him.  Sherlock, who had suddenly powered down without warning, was anything but standard.  He could just go back to his room, back to the bed and the gun.  A stiff nod to himself, and John was pressing his thumb down on the screen.  He repeated that several more times while Mike grined, Sherlock stood in a silent daze, and Lestrade wordlessly inspected him.

"So," The silver haired man started as he breaks his silence and accepts the completed application, "you asked nicely?"

"Very politely, yes," John says, holding his head high as the scrutinizing stare breaks down into a wide grin.  Lestrade laughs, his eyes glinting as he nods.

"Huh," Is all the silver haired man says before he walks from the training room.  He gives them a small wave over his shoulder before he walks out the automated door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather enjoyed the banter with the cast. More to come later.


	3. Gun Safety

John watched in horror as Sherlock took the aim of the gun off the practice target.  The ex-soldier dropped, rather gracelessly, to the cold, concrete floor as the bio-mech pointed the gun at him.  A grunt of escaped his lips as his knee shot a sharp spark of pain through his body that raced up his spine to his heart.  "Sherlock!"  John yelled, glaring up at the hybrid man who blinked down at him in surprise.  "Don't!"

"What?" Sherlock asked, looking down at John.  His eyes were confused as he took in sight of his prone instructor.  

"The gun, Genius!" John scowled, raising his hand toward the weapon that dropped ominously to point at him.

"Yes, it's a gun," Sherlock sighed, the weapon now waved through the air as Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and his hands danced about in emphatic gestures.  "Honestly, John.  You're not so simple.  You were in the service, and not just as a doctor.  I know I am right about that," Sherlock declared.  He then tipped his head as though he was calculating the chance his prior observations could have been wrong.  John sighed in relief when the hand holding the gun dropped down to his side as the blue eyes shinned lightly in the dark of the sound proofed training range.  Grimacing, John pulled himself up to his heels as he braced a hand on his good knee.  The pain was a phantom.  It wasn't real.  That didn't stop his nerves and brain from shooting sparks of fire up his body.  

An arm slipped under his shoulder, wrapping slowly around his back.  Long fingers splayed against his spine before sliding right over the shoulder that held his scar.  Sherlock lifted him gently back to his feet, as though he was lifting an old, porcelain tea pot.  Sherlock kept his arm around John as his blue eyes bore into John's every motion, every reaction.  John could feel himself being cataloged under that stare.  In the back of his mind, John's handler instinct was kicking in.  He should tell Sherlock not to do it.  At least not so noticeably.  The words died in his throat as he was caught under those eyes that seemed to read the world like an open book.  John, for his own part, supposed he already proved to be as easily read as anyone else Sherlock's focus fell upon.

Though, he also figured, if that was the case Sherlock should have stop staring at him like he was still trying to suss something out.

"The pain isn't real," Sherlock said as John steadied his feet.  His leg trembled of it's own volition.  John sighed in obvious frustration as he separated himself from the taller man's steadying embrace.  Maybe Sherlock could work out that the frustration was at himself, and not the hybrid.

"I know, Sherlock," John frowned as he grasped the loosely held gun from the taller man.  Sherlock released the weapon easily.  His attention was otherwise occupied with inspecting John.  "Doesn't make it hurt any less."  Careful, John stepped around Sherlock as he shuffled across the open bays of the enclosed fire range.

"That doesn't- You're obviously malfunctioning," Sherlock's voice declared behind him.  John didn't expect the laugh that barked out of his throat just as he passed the open gate to the weapon locker.  Raising a hand to his mouth, he attempted, and failed, to contain the ensuing giggles that followed.  Eventually, John cleared his throat, regaining some composure as he cleared the chamber, checked the safety, and shelved the hand gun.  Turning on his hip, John faced the wall that held an assortment of assault rifles.  Walking over to the assault rifles, already knowing he was going to select the military standard issue, John flinched as he reached for the weapon.  The cold was tightening his muscles, making movement more difficult in the depths of the Unity Tech's underground training rooms.  Sighing, John grunted as he pulled the weapon off the rack.  Turning, John nearly fell over when he almost tripped over the dark curly haired bio-mech.

"Christ, Sherlock!" John gasped.  Sherlock pale face looked bewildered, his blue eyes wide with surprise as he slowly raised his right hand to display John's cane in offering.  John shook his head, relief coursing through him as he reached with his left hand to accept the cane.  When his fingers clasped about the cane, and Sherlock didn't release the glossed, wooden aid, John's brow quirked up.  Sherlock had his eyes on John, and slowly one black brow followed John's lead rising up towards the crest of his crown of dark curled hair.  The act of Sherlock mimicking him would have seemed funny, except when a long, warm finger slid over the hand that held the rifle and snapped the safety back to 'off'.

"I- I didn't...  Sherlock, I wouldn't!" John stammered.  It felt like his heart had fallen to his feet as Sherlock gently took the rifle from his hand.  John hadn't even realized he'd released the safety.

 "No," Sherlock said coolly as he took a step back from John.  His sharp features were placid as he looked John over once more.  John felt his hands go cold as he watched Sherlock taking his weight.  No handler, no good handler, would threaten the safety of a bio-mech under his care!  John had thought he knew his faults.  He knew he was damaged, useless as a surgeon and a soldier.  He hadn't expected his damage to also effected his skills as a handler.  The air felt thin, and heavy all at once.

Sherlock's lips quirked softly to one side.  The cocked grin was mischievous and it was mirrored by the light that danced in the cool, blue eyes.  "No, not _just_ a doctor."  Sherlock hummed softly as he all but skipped out of the weapon's locker holding the assault rifle.  John's mouth opened and closed as he felt himself flounder.  John finally remembered to breath, and quickly moved to follow the bio-mech back to the practice area.

Sherlock was a genius.  Most bio-mechs designed to be fairly intelligent.  Sherlock, however, was truly a breed on his own.  John had most of his experience with the military fifth generation units.  They could do calculation, and knew integrated data certainly.  However, knowledge and the spark genius were two separate thing's as far as John was concerned.  A fact that was personified by the bio-mech who was haphazardly, and most probably intentionally, playing with an standard issue institute assault rifle in the indoor range.  John was starting to feel like an observed lab rat under Sherlock's eyes that were watching him far more then he was watching the targets.  Actually, he was sure Sherlock was now watching him more then the moving targets on the range, as the hybrid had given up any pretense of aiming his weapon and just started shooting off into the back drop.  It should un-nerve him.  Should.  The fact that it didn't is what left John feeling rather more disturbed.

It wasn't unheard of, for a mech to be highly interested in the reactions of their handler.  In fact, it was rather the point.  The relationship between a handler their bio-mech was a close one.  They were their first one-on-one contact with a human who wasn't only interested in checking their functions after coming online.  Their egos needed the contact, guidance, and social ques a handler offered.  These aids helped a new bio-mech to integrate into their function and the humans around them.  The ego's they had helped them to build upon their programming.  However, there were limitations built into the programs.  Firewalls, if you will, that helped to regulate the fifths and ensure they didn't develop any traits, or preform any actions, that would lead to causing harm to humans.  

That line was grayed in the military fifth units.  They were designed to protect, but also to kill.  The laboratory and civilian produced fifths usually had their handler experience before they were released onto the market.  The same was not true of the military fifths.  Early attempts to place them with handlers, and then deposit them onto the battle field had ended in disaster for the bio-mech, and the men around them.  The military branch of the program was nearly scrapped.  The ego of the units was re-written, and eventually, they were dropped into the field without having had a chance to build up their core programs.  It had been decided that it was best for them to 'learn' on the battle field.  The second attempt at introducing fifth's into the war failed as well.  This time resulting in a almost total loss of the bio-mechs deployed.  

It was happen chance that the program wasn't completely scrapped.  A Privet, some nobody, had taken a liking to the fifths they had deposited into their unit.  Privet No-body probably wasn't the brightest crayon in the box.  Given the events that followed the first fifths in the field, most soldiers kept their distance from the bio-mechs.  Mr. No-body had somehow managed to unknowingly work as a handler for the fifth's in his unit.  When report's of the unit's in that company made it back to the brass, as well as the suspected reason for the success of the program, a new plan was formed.  Soldiers could fill in the roll of a handler in the field.

When Privet No-body took a stray bullet, and the fifths in his unit 'degraded', it became apparent that military fifths required a consistent handler by their side.

When the program worked, the results in mission completion and success were amazing.  When the program failed, usually through being unable to find a compatible handler for the units, things went bad.  Very bad.  The stories of rampaging fifths, slaughtering friend and foe, had made waves through the soldiers on the front line.  Rumor or not, John was never sure.  Either way, the damage was done.  The fifths weren't welcome among the men and women on the front.  Better to face the devil in front of you, then worry about the gun that was suppose to be watching your back.  John had heard the stories, some bore on the lips a men he had sewn back together.  The irony that he would be declared a handler, could only be rivaled by the discovery of his 'skill'.

He was just coming off a nineteen hour surgery in the MASH, still in scrubs as he existed the surgery, when a trio of fifth units marched into the camp and directly up to John.  Braced between the three of them, they carried an unconscious, bloodied Lieutenant.  John directed them into the surgery, hollering for a nurse, or whoever was near him, to start up an blood transfusion as he went to scrub back up.  The fifth's had laid the man on the table and stood back.  The nurse tried to order them out of the operatory, but they just stood there, eyes impassive as they dismissed the woman and instead kept their eyes on John. 

"Forget it Jessica!" John ordered, as a male nurse snapped his nitrile gloves into place.  Jessica had sent John a pleading look that was mirrored by the three conscious humans in the room.  They were afraid of the fifths, just like everyone else.  "The operatory is closed to non-medical personnel.  You three, step out.  You can wait outside, but not in here."  When they didn't move, John sighed as he picked up his scalpel.  "I am Captain John Watson, and that was an order!"

The man on the table took that moment to gasp, cough up a bit of blood, and make a soft motion with his hand.  With that, the three bio-mechs silently left the room.  John was a good surgeon, but there was nothing he could do to save the leg, or the arm.  Bits of shrapnel clanked against the pan for over an hour before John finally sighed in relief.  The last one clanking into the pan. The Lieutenant would need to have bionic limbs placed, however that would have to happen when he was shipped back to a non-mobile unit.  Their integrations were limited to emergency placements.  Assuming he survived the first twenty-four hours in the recovery room, he would probably be okay.  When John exited it was to the sight of three brown eyes that looked at him, and then at the body of the their Lieutenant that was carried on the stretcher to the recovery ward.

"He did well.  Strong guy like that, should be fine," John said as they watched the patient disappear into the door of the recovery ward.

"Should be?" One of the fifth's asked.  He was short, for a soldier unit.  However, John supposed size had little to do with it when he was sure the fifth had ten times the strength he held.

"If he makes it the first twenty-four, he should be able to make the trip back to a fully equipped hospital.  They'll be able to finish patching him up," John said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  "Sorry, fellas.  Been a long, long day myself.  Report in, or do whatever it is you do.  I'll give you an update on his progress after I hit the rack."  John paused as he pushed passed the blank stares that followed him.  "Let me get four," he sighed.  He knew just from the nurses' reaction to them, they wouldn't update the bio-mechs on their lieutenant's status while he was racked.  "If you're still here, I'll let you know how he's doing."  With that, John went to clock a couple hours of shut eye.

When he woke, he crawled out of bed, and dressed.  Stumbling back toward the recovery ward, he was greeted with the blank expression that had seen him depart just four hours prior.

"Did you debrief?" John asked, yawning as he waved them toward the recovery ward.

"Can't debrief," One of the units said.  The smaller, brown haired unit shot a look to his comrade that easily read to even a lay-man as ' _Shut the fuck up!_ '  John paused with his hand on the recovery ward door.  He arched a brow, that earned him a head shake from the smaller of the three bio-mechs.  

"Sir, our mission was classified.  We checked-in."  Brown eyes stared at John, like he was daring John to try and question him further.

"Relax, privet," John sighed.  "I don't care what your mission was," He said, opening the recovery door and allowing the three bio-mechs to move bedside as he grabbed the chart off the end of the bed.  

The injured soldier moved back to a friendly hospital in the city the next day.  The fifths watched as he was loaded up into the van, standing in their military regs, riffles slug as the dust kicked up under the buses' tires.  John felt, well, he guess he felt pity as they stood rooted in their spots.  Like their focus, their reason for everything had just left them behind in a hot, empty dust bowl.

"Drama queen much, John?" He muttered to himself, as he stopped his departure from the loading zone.  Walking back over to the units, John tapped their apparent shot caller on the shoulder.  The shorter, brown haired unit eyed John as he waved his clipboard towards the mess tent.  "Hey, I know you don't eat, but do you play?"

"Play?" He asked, a nearly hidden arch of a brow and veiled incredulous tone brought a grin out of John.

"Come on," John waved with a sweeping motion towards the mess.  "You'll have a bit of down time till you're shipped out as well, I bet."

That was how John found himself in the MASH mess hall, playing, and losing, poker with three fifth generation bio-mechs. 

That's where his commanding officer had chewed him out for 'fraternizing with the local coffee pots'.  He'd been ordered to see the psych, after he was supposed to make twenty laps around the base to remind him, 'what it's like to be human'.  The MASH, wasn't small, it wasn't huge, but it was in the desert.  The heat took him, not just because he had been teetering on exhaustion.  It was also just after noon and the sun was at it's peak.  

He'd made the sixteenth lap when he finally threw up, his pores going dry.  It was a cool hand on his shoulder, and another behind his neck that helped to keep him from collapsing into the sand.  The fifth's had been watching him, like most else in the base, as he made his rounds.  It was cold hands, though, that had helped him drink from a canteen.  It was the fifths that helped him to stand, poured cool water over his hair.  The heat of the sun lessened, a shadow falling over him.  John looked up to see one of the faded gray bunk blankets held over his head.  John gasped, his body trembled as he smiled up at the three units that formed a self erected canopy of shade over his head.  John couldn't help himself.  He laughed, as a shaking hand patted the shoulder of the shorter unit.  His face was indifferent, but John swore those brown eyes were smiling mischievously at him.  With a nod, John pushed again.  Without a word the four of them finished the last four of the laps, albeit far more slowly then any speed he'd been trained to run.

Had the spectacle not drawn such a crowd, his commander might have come up with another innocuous punishment to place upon the surgeon.  As it was, even through the dizziness, John could tell his commander and several of the other soldiers and nurses gave him and his entourage a wide birth as they re-entered the camp.   Instead of recompense, the thick, barrel chested commander only bit down on that ever lasting toothpick.  Slowly pulling it from his teeth, he reminded John that he still needed to see the shrink.  He was to report ASAP.

The story spread fast enough, or maybe the shrink had been watching out the window, that when John entered the tent he was greeted with, 'Tell me soldier; what do you know about handlers?"  Scouting potential handlers regularly fell to the psychs.  However, they usually didn't poach from the MASH units.  The man pushed his glasses up, dropping John's file on his desk as a smile spread on his lips.  The sales pitch was probably wasted on him.  Placing a surgeon, a good one, in combat would be unthinkable.  John, however, displayed several skill sets that were not being utilized in the MASH unit.

He had received top marks back in training.  He was a fair enough shot that he could have gone into the sniper program.  However, anyone could shoot a gun, he'd been told.  It was another thing entirely to stitch someone back up again.  John found himself in the mobile desert forward mobile army surgical hospital unit taking the role of surgeon.  He was helping  towards the war effort.  It should have made him feel some level of accomplishment.  It did, surely more then sitting in a hospital in London.  However, he always felt like he was at the back end of it all.  He didn't feel like he was helping.  Just another hand pressing gauze over a septic wound.  He had been an idealist, he'd realized later.  He really thought that if he had been in combat he could have made more of a difference, saved more lives.  Being offered to head a fifth generation team spoke to the part of him that ached to be more then just the person who patched up the broken men who survived the front lines.

Idealistic, and so stupid.  John sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair as he watched Sherlock eject the empty ammo clip.

"You are having him shoot with projectiles?!" Anderson's indigent voice hollered into the firing range.  Sherlock looked up to the ceiling, his eyes zeroing in on a speaker just over the firing line.  Sherlock reached down to the table at the line, slapping in a new ammo clip.  Chambering the first round, Sherlock twisted, raising the gun and shot out the loud speaker.  The electronic device fizzled and sparked as it shattered on impact. 

"Right.  We may need to go over the basics of gun safety," John said, trying not to smile at Sherlock as he reached an arm to take the rifle from under the taller bio-mech.  "All bullets need to be aimed down that way.  On the other side of the firing line." John gestured with his cane as he took the assault rifle from Sherlock.  The bio-mech looked like he was about to argue, but stopped when he saw John clear his throat trying to hide the grin that was tugging on his lips.  Sherlock blinked, but released the weapon to his trainer.  "You know, it'll only make him come in, right?"

"Hence, why you took the gun," Sherlock deadpanned.  John gave a tight grin and shrugged his good shoulder as he released the chambered round, and turned the safety back on.

"Well, I think gun safety, and your sense of humor could probably both do with a little help," John said as made his way back to the weapon's locker.

"You're upset," Sherlock voice stated as John shelved the rifle.  "Or you're trying to be."

"You can't say things like that," John said, turning back towards the bio-mech as he placed both his hands on his cane.  "Especially about someone like him."

"I was not serious," Sherlock said.  His lips pulled down at the corners, as his dark brow pinched together.  "I miss calculated your response.  This was not the desired effect," Sherlock seemed to be speaking to himself as he crossed his arms, placing a finger across his lips as his eyes glowed faintly.

"Not the desired effect?" John asked, tipping his head to the side.  "Sherlock, what reaction were you trying to get from? Sherlock?"  John walked up to the bio-mech, waving a hand in front of blue eyes that remained unfocused.  John reached up and grabbed the hand Sherlock had placed against his lips.  "Hey, did you catch what I said?  Are you still here?"

"You're laugh," Sherlock replied, his eyes remaining glazed over.

"What?" John blinked in surprise as the door to the closed range opened.  John released the bio-mech's hand, and gave a quick, reassuring squeeze to the taller man's shoulder.  He wasn't sure why he did it.  Sherlock appeared to be lost in his own processes, John doubted he even felt the intended comfort of the gesture.  Though, at least it appeared bio-mech hadn't shut down on him.  Whatever it was that he used to do, seems to have stopped.  As far as John knew.  Mike never brought it up when they spoke, and Sherlock was always present, and online, when they went into training.  

"Why are you letting him use live rounds?" Anderson's voice demanded as the hooked nosed man strode into the range.  "That was scheduled for after he had advanced past hand-to-hand and close quarters combat."

"I don't know why I have to explain my training to you, Doctor," John said crisply.

"Because I'm responsible for monitoring his integrations!" Anderson snapped, waving a data pad in front of John.  "The physical activity is necessary to help muscle development, and expose any neruo-integration connection errors."

"Right," John gave a curt nod, leaving Sherlock who was still holding the same silent pose since Anderson had entered the room.  "A word."  John went to the door Anderson had just come through.  Motioning the other man to follow him into the hall, John waited for the other doctor to join him before closing the door of the sound proofed room.

"Honestly, if you don't know what you're doing-"

"From now on, if you have a problem with me as Sherlock's handler, you will take it up with Mike, or the program director," John bit out flatly, keeping his ire in check.

"Sure, take it up with 'your good ol' buddy Mike', right?" Anderson scoffed, glaring at John.  Ah, John thought.  He already did go to Mike.

"As his handler, I'm responsible for his well being.  Should it be determined I am unfit for the job, I'm sure no one here would have a problem firing me."

"Yes, of course they would when-"

"I am not going to put him through grueling physical challenges when he is still healing," John snapped.  His temper was starting to win the battle.

"Still healing?" Anderson gave a dismissive wave.  "Is that what has you going so easy on him?   He's fine.  His readings are within acceptable limits for the physical training."

"Is that what you said before?" John hissed, taking a predatory step towards the brown haired doctor.

"He has only ever been decommissioned when the arm dislocated-" John stepped forward, cane falling away, as he jabbed a quick punch into Anderson's shoulder that hit just into the tendons attached at the ball joint.  The doctor gasped in pain as his data pad clattered to the ground.  The blow to his chest pushed him back, taking the rest of his breath as his back collided with the wall.  John held him with one hand as he good leg kicked the feet out from under the doctor.  Anderson slid down, his ass hitting the ground as he gasped for the air that had been knocked out of him. His brown eyes watering as he looked down at his right arm.

"You broke my arm!" He cried out when he finally managed to catch a breath.  John kneeled down next to the doctor, his eyes habitually checking his flank as he pinched his face in a grimace.

"Nope.  Just a sprain," John shook his head as he stayed eye level with the fallen doctor.

"But, it's all squishy!" Anderson coughed, as he stared at the limb.

"You are a doctor, aren't you?" John huffed out in bewilderment.  "Not broken, and not dislocated.  Both of those hurt far worse then that," John gestured to the right shoulder he'd just assaulted.  "I read Sherlock's file."  John looked at Anderson, waiting for the doctor to get his drift.  Anderson just looked confused, and like he was in a bit of pain.  "His medical file!"

"Well of course he has a medical file!" Anderson moaned as he placed a hand over his injured shoulder.  John blinked at the doctor before him, his jaw clamping shut as he looked at the brown haired man in bewilderment.

"You still don't get it," John sighed as he shook his head.  "Fine, I'll make this simple.  If you ever clear Sherlock for training or anything else when he's suffering from sustained injuries, or is in pain, that," John pointed to Anderson's cradled arm, "will feel like a tickle in comparison."

"He was fine!  His body could handle-"

"You didn't even give him any NSAIDS," John watched Anderson's face go pale when his voice came out as little more then a dark growl.

"Well that was very educational," a silky baritone voice hummed from behind John.  John froze.  This was the second time Sherlock had managed to sneak up on him.  It was also the second time the bio-mech was witnessing him at less then his best. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update on tags to include BAMF John. Will be aiming for more updates soon.


	4. Questionable Promotion

"Sherlock!" Anderson gasped, struggling to pull his arm more into his fetal position.  "This oaf hit me!" Anderson spat, his legs kicking back as he struggled to stand.  John watched the doctor climbed back into a standing position.  Dropping the doctor had been a way to keep him from trying anything stupid, like retaliating.  However, given the look he was sending Sherlock, Anderson had no intention of brawling with John.  He fully looked like he expected Sherlock to come to his rescue.  It rubbed John the wrong way, on a level he hadn't expected.  He was getting the inclination that the man thought of Sherlock as little more then a tool after he read the medical reports.  The one-on-one talk had not assuaged his suspicions.  Given the expectant looks he was shooting Sherlock, John was quiet sure he'd read the man perfectly.  It made his gut twist with disgust as he carefully rose to his feet.

"I know.  I was watching," Sherlock's deep voice practically purred just behind John.  The ex-soldier repressed a shiver that had worked between his shoulder blades as he turned a cutting look back at the bio-mech.  Sherlock was watching him again, but his gaze flicked back to Anderson as the other doctor moved a step away from them.

"Watching?" John found himself asking, a bit of his anger slipping through.  How?  He knew he'd checked over his shoulder, clearing himself from an assault from behind.  Habit more then actually expecting anything, but still.  Sherlock gave a small shrug in response, placing a finger against his lips again.  When his blue eyes darted up over John's head, John found himself following it.  A small, black dome was attached to the center of the hall.  The security camera?

"You can't get away with this!" Anderson was turning red.  Realization that Sherlock would not come to his defense sinking in as he backed quickly down the hall.  "You can't just assault people.  This isn't the war!  Kiss your job good by, Dr. Watson!"  Anderson's mouth snapped shut when Sherlock took a step towards the fuming doctor.  Turning, his white coat trailed behind him as he fled the scene.  John watched him go, clenching his fist as he watched the retreating form hop into the lift.  No doubt he'd go right from the basement to security, or HR, whatever.  John released a breath through his teeth.  He'd let himself lose control.  He'd never done that before, not like this.  Mrs. Thompson wouldn't be pleased at their next session when he'd  have to report he was fired for assaulting a co-worker.

"I shouldn't have done that," John muttered his thoughts aloud.  Shaking his head, he tried to clear his mind.  A white clad figure moved to his right, and John's brow pinched as he looked over to the hovering bio-mech.  "You," John poked a finger into Sherlock's chest, trying to grab the bio-mech's attention.  The action may have been pointless.  Sherlock's eyes had already been stuck to him, though the ex-soldier was beginning to suspect that he was splitting his processes given how his gaze was glazing over again.  The touch did manage to get those blue eyes focused back on him. "What do you mean you were watching?  Through the camera?"  John whispered the last, keeping his voice barely over a whisper.  Sherlock's blue eyes sparkled as he gave the tiniest not-there smile.  John felt a weight slam down onto his shoulders knocking the air from his lungs.  "Do they know?  That you can..."

"No, not yet I think," Sherlock said, not bothering to keep his voice low.  "Sooner then later I imaging that will change."

"Sherlock, I don't know if they'll like you hacking into their security systems!" John hissed.  Sherlock's smile only grew as he leaned down.  His face was but a few inches from John's, but it wasn't until his breath touched John's skin that John suddenly realized how far they had pressed into each other's personal space.  Licking his lips, John tried to focus on the subject at hand and not the proximity to the bio-mech.  "In fact, I rather fancy that any clandestine science lab that dabbles into ground breaking advancements in biological mechanics would rather not like anyone hacking their systems."

"I imagine that what they like, and what they don't, doesn't really interest me at this junction in time," Sherlock leaned, and somehow John never saw it coming.  The kiss, soft lips pressed against his, purged John's brain of all thought.  Pressing his hands against Sherlock's shoulders, he tried to push the bio-mech back, trying to reclaim some space.  Sherlock was like a rock, neither moving forward, nor relenting from where he leaned down.  A wet pressure against John's bottom lip, and he gasping out in surprise.  A mistake on his part, John realized, as his open mouth was filled with Sherlock's caressing tongue.  John felt himself tremble, a sound escaping his throat as he attempted to get Sherlock's attention way from the kiss.  John felt the heat building in his face, when he realized the sound that had escaped his throat was an indistinguishable moan.  Long finger's slid up the side of his neck, nesting into his short, blond hair.  John gripped Sherlock's white linen Uni-tech v-cut top.  The thick fabric of the uniform bunched in John's hands.  Below the fabric John felt muscles tighten as  John vaguely realized he didn't know how holding onto Sherlock would help him break the kiss, or why was it that he wanted to do that?  

The kiss broke, eventually, and John gulped several deep breaths as his hand's held onto Sherlock's shirt.  No, the uniform given to him by Uni-tech.  They resembled scrubs, and usually such things weren't put on patients.  Even still, it wasn't really that long ago that Sherlock had donned the patient gown, was it?  John felt the guilt rip through him as Sherlock's thumb caressed the flushed skin on his cheek before falling away.  Sherlock was emotionally dependent on him.  Somehow, he'd messed this up.  None of the other fifths he'd worked with had shown any sexual interest. He'd never even considered this aspect when he interacted with Sherlock.  Then again, Sherlock was the next level.  John had all but told him he was practically human, and somehow he'd not considered this a possible side of the bio-mech's advancement.  Even if the kiss had been Sherlock's doing, he keenly felt his failing the bio-mech.  John felt like he'd betrayed Sherlock in that moment, and it was like having the bullet rip through his chest once more.

John tried to come up with something, anything to say or a way to apologize, but it didn't matter.  Before he could say anything the door to the lift opened.  Seven fully armored security dressed in riot gear pushed out of the lift like they'd been in a clown car.  Four dropped to their knees, while three stood over their shoulders, assault rifles drawn and trained on John.  John turned slowly, making sure he was as much of a physical wall as he shorter stature would allow to block his bio-mech.

"On your knees!" One of the men shouted, voice distorted behind his face shield.  "On your knees!"

"Alright," John said as he slowly began to lower his bad leg.  "Alright."

"Hands behind your head!  Behind your head!" John wanted to tell him the coercion tactic was pointless.  He was willing to comply, however didn't want to risk seeming hostile.  Slowly he moved his hands from their position in the air to lace his fingers behind his head.  Pinching his eyes shut, he waited for the advance.  He'd be slammed onto the floor and secured from behind.

"Don't move!"  John's eyes snapped open, ready to yell that, 'I'm not!' when his heart stopped. The aim of the weapons jumped from a kneeling John to the long form dressed in thick white and tan cotton pants that slid in front of John.

"Don't shoot!" John yelled, his fingers releasing their laced position from behind his head.  Adrenalin coursed through his blood as his heart hammered in his chest.  "He's unarmed!"

"Don't move!"

"Don't shoot!  He doesn't understand-"

"Get down!" John realized he was beginning to stand when three of the rifles jumped to aim at his head.  He instantly dropped, laying flat on the ground with hands secured behind his head.  Craning his neck, John's chin brushed upon the hard, cold tiled floor.  It was in this position, he watched in horror as Sherlock's head tipped down, long arms going lax at his sides.  He couldn't see if the bio-mech had shut down again, or if he'd just glazed over.  In either case, Sherlock wouldn't respond to commands.  They would think he was hostile.  John cursed the gods, the stars, and most of all himself as the guards were yelling again at Sherlock to back down.

"Just calm down!" John was not one to plead.  He'd only ever done it once, and had hated how weak it had made him sound.  This was no exception, but if pleading would stop the escalating storm, he'd beg till he'd gone hoarse.  His voice cracking as he tried to yell over the guard, "He's harm-"

It was faster then anything he'd ever seen.  In truth, he wasn't sure he'd even seen anything.  A blur of motion, two bursts rang out, and Sherlock was across the hall.  The three standing guards collapsed upon each other.  Their weapons clattering to the ground, and the four closest to the ground tried to roll away from the swift punches that had taken out the other members of their team.  It was impossible to dodge Sherlock though.  Slamming one security guard's head to the ground, he flipped another, slapping a hand across a throat that left the man gasping for air.  John scrapped his feet against the tiled floor as he scrambled up to race toward the guards and the bio-mech.   Sherlock's elbow hit another across the face and spun the guard about on his feet.  The last one, finally having risen to his feet, raised his gun, getting off another burst.  Sherlock was in front of him though, a hand on his chest as his other arm punched into the shoulder of the arm that held the gun.  The man cried out as the weapon fell from his fingers.  Sherlock slammed a hand across his chest that knocked him into the wall.  A sweep of his legs had the gasping guard gripping at his throat as he coughed when Sherlock completed the move John had done on Anderson just a little while ago.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, reaching out and grasping hold of the bio-mech's still raised arm that looked to deliver another blow to the choking man.  The soldier in John told him that _this_ was what those rumors that had filled the desert born from.  The handler in John knew, or hoped, that this was what it looked like.  Self defense, or defense of a friend.  Though, kissing wasn't really something you did with friends.  John waited as he held onto Sherlock's bicep, waiting to see if that fist would turn on him as well.

"It's alright, John," Sherlock said, slowly pulling out of John's grasp.  "You didn't do this," Sherlock's voice was soft, but he didn't stop looking at the lift.

"Yeah. I did," John said, shaking his head.  "This is because of what I did to Anderson.  You shouldn't have-  It'll be okay." John rubbed a hand behind his neck, pacing around the incapacitated guards and wincing as he watched them moan.  "Look, just, go back into the range.  Stay in there.  I'll turn myself over, and explain everything.  Just stay there.  Maybe I can get Mike down here-"

Sherlock turned just a hair, enough of the bio-mech to finally get a look at John.  Whatever the taller man saw, made him roll his eyes, but that half hidden smile pulled just lightly at the corner of his lips.

"Are you going to take credit for all of this then?" Sherlock asked as the lift lit up.  The sound of the elevator descending drew a fear out of John he hadn't felt in a long time.

"Sherlock, go back into the range!" John commanded, pulling on the bio-mech's arm once more.  Sherlock's arm moved, but he was rooted in place.  "Sherlock!"  The door opened and John growled in irritation as he moved to stand between Sherlock and the elevator.  Raising his arms out, John put on his best soldier face as the door opened to reveal the last thing John would have expected.  Gregory Lestrade, phone pressed to his ear as he took in the scene.  Knocked out, bloodied, incapacitated guards strewn about Sherlock and John who as trying to make a physical ward between Sherlock and the elevator.  Gregory rolled his eyes, his shoulders getting in on the action, as he raised his free hand to gesture toward John, and then the guards.  Lestrade mouthed out the words, _'Really?!_ " as he kept the phone plastered to his ear.  Holding up a finger, Greg pressed a foot into the opening of the lift, pressing the door back in agitation.

"Yeah.  Yeah, I got it," Lestrade sighed as he waved a hand for John to come forward.  John followed the motion, keeping his hands raised.  John moved his hands over and behind his head, once more lacing his fingers.  "You too, SH.  Yes, you!" Lestrade snapped his fingers, pointing at Sherlock.  Sherlock took one long step over the still gasping guard, and joined Lestrade and John in the elevator.

"Should probably send someone from medical down there," Sherlock said, cocking his head as he leaned against the back of the elevator.  Lestrade glared daggers at Sherlock, but turned and murmured about needing a medical team in the sub-level 3 into the phone.  Finally Lestrade shut his phone off, sighing deeply while staring at the thing for several more minutes.  Looking up at John, he rolled his eyes as he stashed the phone into his pocket.

"You can put your arms down, John," Lestrade grouched.  John eyed him, before slowly letting his arms fall to his sides.  The lift pinged several times, while they stood in silence.  Lestrade shifted on his feet, before finally turning on Sherlock.  "T.  Trouble.  Now, _that_ should have been your designation, SH.  Little bit more convenient, you know, what when declaring where you are, or what you're doing."  Lestrade bit down on his cheeks, rocking on his heels as his fingers tapped nervously at the back casing of the phone he still grasped in his pocket.

"I don't go by my designation," Sherlock said blandly.  The boredom was painted clearly over his face, even as Lestrade whipped his neck around to give an arched glare to Sherlock.

"What?  Don't go by your designation?" The silver haired man glared at Sherlock, who proceeded to ignore the the questions in favor of looking up at the numbers that dinged over the doors of the lift.

"Top floor, isn't it?  Has to be the top.  Symbolic, and pretentious?  Of course," Sherlock murmured bitterly carrying on a conversation with himself and ignoring the program director.

"Right.  This is your doing again, isn't it?" Lestrade asked, turning his glare on John.

"What?" John felt his body thrum with the accusation.  It was his fault, wasn't it.  The kiss, the attack on Anderson, and the guards.  It took him a moment to realize what Lestrade had actually implied and his brow went up to his hairline, "His name?  Is that really what's so important right now?  Besides, he picked his name a week ago in my interview," John said, pulling his hands behind his back as he assumed a military rest.  "It's not a secret.  Anderson and Mike both know he'd decided on Sherlock."

"Sherlock?!" Lestrade looked like he'd just swallowed a bug, eyes going wide before he coughed.  

"Yes, of course.  He said it was the name of his ego."

"I'd heard you were calling him a girly name.  That's what Anderson had said.  I just thought, you know, you were teasing him.  I didn't think he'd picked out..." Lestrade mumbled.  His fingers reached up, and the silver haired man began pulling on his tie, as he started muttering something that sounded like a prayer.  The only sound that entered the lift was the soft 'ding' as they passed the floors going up.  "I'll have to tell him," Lestrade said, rising up from his hunched position as he pulled on the hem of his suit, straighten up as much as his height would allow.

The lift let out a final 'ding', and they exited on the 48th floor.  The room was not quiet what John would have figured for a top floor of a lab and research facility.  In fact, it looked an awful lot like a pent house.  The lift had deposited them in the center of a circular room that held curved windows that let in the light of the late afternoon sun.  Outside the city sprawled below with streets, buildings, and sparse flecks of green.  The room was an arrangement of soft creams, and mahogany.  The carpet and cushioned chairs were soft and comfortable looking.  A bar and kitchen set off to the side of the main living room that held the rather breath taking view.  There were rooms back past the kitchen, but John didn't get the chance to track all points of egress before Sherlock pushed past him.  John fought the urge to place a hand on Sherlock as the bio-mech took three long strides, before vaulting over nimbly over the back of the long, cream colored sofa.  Stepping over the elegant glass coffee table, Sherlock walked like a man possessed until he reached the full length plate glass window.  John felt like a string was pulling him towards the bio-mech, somewhere under his ribs.  It took him one step, but when Sherlock's hand hesitantly touched the window, realization abated all fears that the bio-mech might continue his jaunt through the window's of the 48th floor.

"Stay here," Lestrade said softly, raising a hand in warning toward's John.  John gave a stiff nod as the older man strode from the main room, back past the kitchenette.  John cast one look at the elevator, before moving to stand beside Sherlock.  He'd only been with Uni-Tech for a week, but he was pretty sure he couldn't escape the reach of such a well funded, government tied company.  Instead of running, John looked out over London.  The city was busy.  People going about their day.  Their lives unaffected by the blood and death that lay outside the city.  Must be nice for them, John thought as he shoved his hands into his lab jacket pockets.

"It's not blue," Sherlock finally spoke.  His palms pressed against the glass, as he leaned as close to the cool surface as he could.  He pressed his face against the glass, turning his sharp gaze up towards the sky that was blocked by the ceiling.

"Blue skies don't really exist in the city," John said, shaking his head.  "Once, maybe," He shrugged, as his eyes fell upon the gray smog that cast it's ever vague shadow over the city.  John chuckled, and Sherlock turned his attention from the view of London to shoot John a curiously knitted brow. "I was just thinking." John waved a dismissive hand.  "I hated that desert.  Hot as hell, and so dry.  The sand, it got _everywhere_.  The sky though," John sighed as he turned, leaning his back against the view of the cityscape.  "Me and, um, some of my team," John rubbed the back of his neck as he recalled the men he now so causally called 'team', "we'd watch the sun sets.  Helps when you're on watch already.  The night sky though.  You can see a few stars in the city, but about as many as you could count on your hand.  Out there, there was nothing.  Against the dark you could see everything.  It was like, clouds of color, and bright pins of light set against an endless backdrop.  It was... I can't even describe it properly," John huffed out a half-hearted laugh at his own stupidity.  He didn't know why he was carrying on like this.  Sherlock's eyes stayed trained outside the glass, and the bio-mech appeared to be ignoring him.

"Quiet right.  You're awful at it," Sherlock said, eyes darting to John before returning to the city below.  "But, it is... interesting.  I would hear more.  The sky; it was one of the first data files I recalled.  It looked nothing like this.  The file must have been corrupted."

"Doubtful,"  A sharp, distinguished voice called to them.  John turned his eyes from Sherlock, to let them fall on an reddish, brown haired man in a blue-gray suit.  "Despite what numerous reports from at least one of your doctors, you are operating perfectly."  The man, tall and thin, unpinned one of his buttons as he moved to take a seat in the arm chair just beside the coffee table.  A young, beautiful brunet came to stand behind him.  Her fingers tapping away on her phone as she proceeded to ignore everyone present.  Lestrade came into the lounge a second later, a tray of cups and a tea pot set upon the silver metal in his hands.

"Tea, Dr. Watson?"  The man asked, waving a hand to the tray Lestrade set upon the coffee table.

"I'd rather not, if it's just the same with you," John said, pressing his hands together behind his back.  The auburn haired man rolled his eyes, his head taking on the same lull as he gave Lestrade a look that communicated more then John could make out.

"Relax, Doctor," Lestrade sighed as he began to pour four cups.  "Take a seat."

"Rather stand," John said, keeping his at rest pose.  If he was going to be fired, he'd rather they just get it over with instead of being so very damn English about it!

"On that leg?"  The auburn haired man's ocean blue eyes dance with a light that touched the edge of his lips.  John blinked, realizing he'd left his cane down in the basement.  In fact, he'd dropped it when he had first assaulted his coworker.  He hadn't even realized he'd abandoned it, but his led hadn't hurt to remind him either.  It was in that moment that his nerves decided now was the time to bring up that reminder.  John felt his knee begin to buckle.  Just as he decided accepting a chair would be wise over falling on his face, an arm wrapped behind his back.  Another hand placed gently over his chest, and Sherlock was seating him on the couch.  Once John was settled, with Lestrade thrusting a cup and saucer thrust into his hands, Sherlock spared a loathing glare at the un-named man in the suit who was smiling something that flared danger warnings on all of John's internal sensors.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock hissed.  The anger in the bio-mech's voice took John by surprise.  Sherlock might have run a gamete of emotions under his placid facade, but anger was not one John had yet to see.  Let alone to see any emotion so readily displayed.

"Oh, that's rather rich," Mycroft cooed, taking his cup of tea from Lestrade. "This fiasco was your own doing."  Taking a sip of his tea, Mycroft settled back into his chair.  Blue, intelligent eyes took in Sherlock as he set the cup back down.  "You've already made quiet the spectacle.  Your 'message' was received loud and clear.  It's a little fast though, don't you think?"

"Then shall we cut to the chase?" Sherlock grumbled, folding his arms as he collapsed on second lounge chair that framed the table.

"Yes, lets," Mycroft said coldly.  The woman's typing beside his shoulder froze.  Her eyes focusing in on Mycroft, who gave her the briefest incline of his head.  She swiped her fingers across her phone several times, and began typing once more, even faster then before.  "I can arrange a home for you in London." Lestrade's tea sprayed from his lips at the words.  The fine spray of brown liquid decorated the clear glass coffee table. "Under several conditions," Mycroft said without missing a beat, setting his cup and saucer on the table.  Reaching into his suite pocket he handed a handkerchief to the silver haired man.  Lestrade mumbled an apology as he too set his shaking cup down.

"Mycroft...," Lestrade said low, leaning toward the other man slightly.  His voice held a worried tone, as his finger's moved to hold a tightened grip on his knees.  Mycroft didn't seem to react to the address.  Only the slight crinkle around his eyes gave away that he even heard the other man.  Mycroft only had eyes for Sherlock, and something about the way he was looking at the bio-mech seemed so familiar to John.

"I don't see why I should have to listen to any of your demands," Sherlock huffed, returning the gaze for one of his own.  However, Sherlock's eyes broke that stare.  He glanced at John, then Lestrade, before quirking an inquisitive brow at Mycroft.

"Precautions that would be in your best interest," Mycroft said, a hint of agitation in his voice. "You will stay in London, in the-" Mycroft leaned to his side, shaking off the irritation as he waved a hand near his face.  The woman beside his shoulder supplied the word 'flat', as she continued to type. "The flat.  You can not leave the city without informing Lestrade, or myself where you are going."

"I don't expect I could get very far without you knowing where I was," Sherlock said, his eyes darting up to a small camera on the ceiling.

"Yes.  You will also need to submit to progress reports by your handler-"

"It will be John," Sherlock said.

"After that display?" Mycroft scoffed, and John felt his face flush.  "You need not worry.  I'm not a monster.  I won't punish him for your manipulations.  We can find another handler-"

"John is the perfect candidate, as you are well aware!" Sherlock snapped.

"Tell me, John," Mycroft turned a cocked smile to the soldier who had been tying to blend into the sofa, "have you ever carried out an illicit affair with _any_ of the bio-mechs under your command?"

"What?!" John's face burned so hot, he could feel his ears burning.  "I didn't- I would never--!"  John was practically sputtering at the accusation.  He'd never have violated the trust of the fifths of his team! 

"Yes, quiet right.  I expected no less," Mycroft turned his smile back to Sherlock, the light and grin falling from his face instantly.  "Do you still want him?"  John turned to Sherlock, who had stopped shifting in his seat.  His gaze was focused on Mycroft alone, his expression unreadable even to John.

"Stay in London, and keep a handler?" Sherlock asked.  Mycroft smiled softly, giving a small nod.

"Right," Sherlock said, before returning John's gaze.  "Shall we go look at this flat then?"

"What?" John asked, feeling rather lost. "Right, sorry.  Am I _not_ being fired here?"

"You certainly know how to pick them," Mycroft gave a very put-upon sigh, standing.

"You're one to toss judgement," Sherlock grumbled as he and Lestrade also stood.  Mycroft paused by Lestrade, giving the project director the smallest nod as he left the room.  "Are you still under the delusion you need that stick?"  Sherlock asked John who shot the bio-mech a cool glare.

"Don't be an ass, SH...  Sherlock," Lestrade said.  He left the room, returning shortly with a walking stick umbrella.  "Says it'll rain later anyways."  He gave John a soft smile as he helped the shorter blond to stand from the couch that had started to sink in around his frame.

"Right, Lestrade-" John started only to have a hand wave dismissively before him.

"Gregory.  Look, I know it's a little weird.  I know he can be a little weird," Lestrade pointed over to Sherlock who had moved to press repeatedly at the elevator button.  "Just, hang in there."

"So...  I am not fired for assaulting Anderson?" John asked, disbelief filling his voice.  Lestrade grinned widely, patting John on the back.

"Naw.  In fact, I think you've just been promoted!" Lestrade laughed as the elevator bell dinged and Sherlock slipped inside.

"Yeah, right.  About, uh, that.  What the bloody hell is going on?!" John snapped gripping the umbrella so tightly he felt he could snap it.

"Oh, come on John!" Sherlock yelled, slapping a hand against he elevator doors to push them open as the tried to close.

"You've acted as a handler in the war," Lestrade said, crossing his arms. "Now, you get to do it in London.  If it makes you feel better, this is probably a good sign.  We didn't plan to keep SH in the facility forever.  Just, take it easy out there with him.  Make sure he eats.  Also, keep an eye on his vitals.  You know, the normal things.  Oh, and don't let him go running off.  Mycroft will bring him back in if he thinks he's just going to take off."  John found himself nodding, wondering if Lestrade knew how much he was letting on that he cared about the bio-mech with his barrage of care instructions.  "Here, take this," Lestrade reached into his pocket, pulling out a card and handing it to John.  "I'll transfer ownership on it before you leave," He said, already tapping on his phone.  "I'll make sure there's at least a coat down stairs when you check out.  You can buy him some cloths, but it's too cold to be walking out of here dressed in the uniform."

"It's okay, Greg," John said, shoving the card into his pocket and patting a hand on Lestrade's shoulder, rubbing his hand over the tensed man reassuringly.  Lestrade looked like he was about to work himself up into hysterics.

"John, I will not hold this door forever!" Sherlock's voice called as the door dinged again.

"Yes you better!" Lestrade snapped.  "Look John, Sherlock, he's really special.  Alright?  You need to take care of him.  If you need anything call me directly," He said, tapping on his phone and John felt his own phone buzz in his pocket.  "That's me.  Okay?  Anyways, I'll send you the location of the flat you can take Sherlock to as soon as Athena gives me the information.  You better get going," Lestrade grimaced as he looked over John.  John didn't need to turn around to know a very peeved bio-mech was glaring at him from the elevator.  "I'll send you the re-worked contract to your email."

"Right, okay," John said, giving Lestrade's arm one more squeeze before he turned and walked to the elevator, the umbrella tapping softly into the cream carpet.  Sherlock did indeed look peeved as John finally joined him.

"I was going to leave without you," Sherlock pouted, crossing his arms as the elevator finally dinged closed.

"Yeah, but then they wouldn't let you out of the building.  Right?" John asked, reaching forward to slap the button for the ground floor.  The elevator ride was quiet as John tapped his fingers against the wooden, hooked handle of the umbrella.  "He's right," John said eventually.

"Hardly!" Sherlock bristled beside John.

"No, really.  You can't walk around in the Uni-Tech scrubs," John said, fingering the card in his pocket.  "We have to get you some cloths.  Maybe some food then.  Whatever they're planing for your place, they should have figured out by then."

"Oh," Sherlock said, his brow lifting as he relaxed slightly, his frown lessening.

"What?" John asked, catching the sudden shift in Sherlock who had once more donned his placid facade.

"Nothing of consequence," Sherlock said, giving John a sidelong stare.  "What's wrong with these cloths?"  Sherlock asked, plucking a finger into the V-neck shirt he wore.

"Nothing," John said, shaking his head.  Taking a deep breath, John watched as the elevator descended.  He needed to apologize to Sherlock, for that kiss.  Even as he tried to form the words, his lips wouldn't move.  It was in that state, trying to speak and unable to fathom the words he needed to say, that the door opened on the ground floor and the light of the lobby washed over them.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy slow builds. Sherlock would have none of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Looking for Johnlock recs I found someone requesting an android Sherlock story. Searching for one, I don't recall if I ever found one. The idea stuck with me, and here you go! There is a plot, that will develop as the story goes. More John and Sherlock to come.


End file.
